As I'm a happily married man (or so Mrs Wife tells me) I've never been to an online dating site.
For those who are looking for love on the worldwide interweb, this handy guide will help you avoid an absolute munter.
Unless, of course, an absolute munter is what you're after. In which case, it should be viewed as a catalogue.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Working Nine to Five
Today is pay day for Groanin' Jock. Another month at the coalface has passed, and my bank account is temporarily swollen with cash.
The temporaray nature of this swelling is terribly depressing. Within the next two days, most of my monthly earnings will be siphoned off to other accounts, where they will be soaked up by the mortgage, council tax, various insurance policies and my credit card bill.
But, as the money is sitting in my account today, I decided to afford myself a little treat. In fact, no, treat is the wrong word.
I forked out twenty quid today on what is, frankly, a necessity - Football Manager 2007. This latest strain on my social life, eating habits, personal hygiene and, quite possibly, marriage, is as eagerly-awaited as any album by any of my favourite bands.
I've been hooked on SI Games' management simulators since 1996, when I was first introduced to Championship Manager 2. Since then, I've owned every incarnation of the game - through Championship Manager 97/98 to Championship Manager 3 to Championship Manager 2001/2002 to Championship Manager 4 to Championship Manager 2003/2004 and on to Football Manager 2005, Football Manager 2006 and now Football Manager 2007.
It would be frightening to think how many hours, days, weeks (years?) I have spent playing these games. My managerial career, in hours alone, probably outstrips those of Alex McLeish and Gordon Strachan.
I could wax lyrical about these games for hours on end. Quite simply, I am the consumate geek, a fact I alluded to briefly in an earlier post entitled Can You Manage?. I'm so excited by the prospect of this new game, which will drop through my letterbox on October 20, that I am considering purchasing a new laptop to play it on.
But that would SERIOUSLY screw up the finances.....
The temporaray nature of this swelling is terribly depressing. Within the next two days, most of my monthly earnings will be siphoned off to other accounts, where they will be soaked up by the mortgage, council tax, various insurance policies and my credit card bill.
But, as the money is sitting in my account today, I decided to afford myself a little treat. In fact, no, treat is the wrong word.
I forked out twenty quid today on what is, frankly, a necessity - Football Manager 2007. This latest strain on my social life, eating habits, personal hygiene and, quite possibly, marriage, is as eagerly-awaited as any album by any of my favourite bands.
I've been hooked on SI Games' management simulators since 1996, when I was first introduced to Championship Manager 2. Since then, I've owned every incarnation of the game - through Championship Manager 97/98 to Championship Manager 3 to Championship Manager 2001/2002 to Championship Manager 4 to Championship Manager 2003/2004 and on to Football Manager 2005, Football Manager 2006 and now Football Manager 2007.
It would be frightening to think how many hours, days, weeks (years?) I have spent playing these games. My managerial career, in hours alone, probably outstrips those of Alex McLeish and Gordon Strachan.
I could wax lyrical about these games for hours on end. Quite simply, I am the consumate geek, a fact I alluded to briefly in an earlier post entitled Can You Manage?. I'm so excited by the prospect of this new game, which will drop through my letterbox on October 20, that I am considering purchasing a new laptop to play it on.
But that would SERIOUSLY screw up the finances.....
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Routine inspection
It may be true that when the cat's away, the mice will play, but when Mrs Wife is away, my life tends to lose a little of its normal structure.
As she is away to a training seminar of some variety over the next three days, I was left to my own devices last night.
When the other half is in residence at Groanin' Towers, there tends to be a routine to the evening. I'll get home from work at 5pm and spend an hour attempting to win the World Cup on Pro Evolution Soccer on the Playstation, then we'll start dinner when she gets home at 6pm.
From then on, Groanin' Towers takes its nightly journey from Hollyoaks to Eastenders via Emmerdale and Coronation Street, before the good TV starts. And we're usually in bed around 10pm.
But in the absence of the little lady, all semblence of routine is thoroughly disposed of. The lights were out, the lava lamps cast their eerie glows onto the walls, Football Manager 2006 was fired up on the laptop and Bob Dylan screeched from the stereo.
Dinner was blasted in the microwave for three minutes around 7.30pm and eaten in around the same amount of time. There were no stop-offs in Soapland but the Sky remote control was in heavy use as the early hours beckoned.
Digitial TV is a strange place when darkness falls. Inexplicably, I found myself perusing the shopping channels, where goons with bleached teeth attempted to sell me a kettle, iron and toaster package for the incredible price of just eight pounds plus another eight pounds postage and packaging.
Another channel was selling framed gold discs, including a signed Madonna Greatest Hits at 399 quid. A limited edition red vinyl Elvis single at 20 quid seemed like a more realistic purchase, but alas I couldn't reach the phone in time.
Now, Groanin' Towers is in serious need of a tidy. It's quite easy to chart my evening by the debris left in my wake - shirt and tie ditched near the door, shoes kicked off in the kitchen, junk mail thrown to within inches of the recycling bin, food plate on the sitting room floor, last night's clothes next to the bed.
I'd love to say that the same will happen again tonight, but that would be too much like getting into a routine.
As she is away to a training seminar of some variety over the next three days, I was left to my own devices last night.
When the other half is in residence at Groanin' Towers, there tends to be a routine to the evening. I'll get home from work at 5pm and spend an hour attempting to win the World Cup on Pro Evolution Soccer on the Playstation, then we'll start dinner when she gets home at 6pm.
From then on, Groanin' Towers takes its nightly journey from Hollyoaks to Eastenders via Emmerdale and Coronation Street, before the good TV starts. And we're usually in bed around 10pm.
But in the absence of the little lady, all semblence of routine is thoroughly disposed of. The lights were out, the lava lamps cast their eerie glows onto the walls, Football Manager 2006 was fired up on the laptop and Bob Dylan screeched from the stereo.
Dinner was blasted in the microwave for three minutes around 7.30pm and eaten in around the same amount of time. There were no stop-offs in Soapland but the Sky remote control was in heavy use as the early hours beckoned.
Digitial TV is a strange place when darkness falls. Inexplicably, I found myself perusing the shopping channels, where goons with bleached teeth attempted to sell me a kettle, iron and toaster package for the incredible price of just eight pounds plus another eight pounds postage and packaging.
Another channel was selling framed gold discs, including a signed Madonna Greatest Hits at 399 quid. A limited edition red vinyl Elvis single at 20 quid seemed like a more realistic purchase, but alas I couldn't reach the phone in time.
Now, Groanin' Towers is in serious need of a tidy. It's quite easy to chart my evening by the debris left in my wake - shirt and tie ditched near the door, shoes kicked off in the kitchen, junk mail thrown to within inches of the recycling bin, food plate on the sitting room floor, last night's clothes next to the bed.
I'd love to say that the same will happen again tonight, but that would be too much like getting into a routine.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Groanin' Jock is unwell
After my crowing earlier in the week that I haven't had a hangover in more than a year, I am now being made to suffer for my arrogance in the face of nature.
I have man flu. Though women commonly mistake this life-threatening condition for the common cold, the two are light years apart.
The following excerpt from Dr Jock's Home Medical Guide (Groanin' Publications, 2006) offers advice on the treatment of man flu:
"Man flu makes the sufferer feel so ill that they can only really be treated by a day of full-on pampering in bed. Drinks, both hot and cold, should be relayed to the patient as and when required, as should whatever food the patient craves at that time.
Pillows should be plumped up a minimum of once every hour, and the patient should be given a variety of stimulating magazines, books, computer games, TV programmes and other entertainment whenever requested.
As the condition is unique to men, there is no danger of a woman contracting man flu, and as a result, wives, girlfriends or mothers should be on hand at all times to see to all the patient's needs. Because the condition is not contagious to women, requests from the patient for 'snuggling' should be agreed to with a smile."
Unfortunately, Mrs Wife is in Aviemore for the next three nights at a training course. So I'll be living off Lemsip, toast and biscuits. Spare a thought for those who suffer....
I have man flu. Though women commonly mistake this life-threatening condition for the common cold, the two are light years apart.
The following excerpt from Dr Jock's Home Medical Guide (Groanin' Publications, 2006) offers advice on the treatment of man flu:
"Man flu makes the sufferer feel so ill that they can only really be treated by a day of full-on pampering in bed. Drinks, both hot and cold, should be relayed to the patient as and when required, as should whatever food the patient craves at that time.
Pillows should be plumped up a minimum of once every hour, and the patient should be given a variety of stimulating magazines, books, computer games, TV programmes and other entertainment whenever requested.
As the condition is unique to men, there is no danger of a woman contracting man flu, and as a result, wives, girlfriends or mothers should be on hand at all times to see to all the patient's needs. Because the condition is not contagious to women, requests from the patient for 'snuggling' should be agreed to with a smile."
Unfortunately, Mrs Wife is in Aviemore for the next three nights at a training course. So I'll be living off Lemsip, toast and biscuits. Spare a thought for those who suffer....
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
A fitting tribute
Today I heard that one of my younger brother's friends had been killed in a car crash over the weekend.
Although I didn't really know Eck, I remember him as a wee smiling blond boy in my brother's football team way back when they were just young teenage boys.
It's frightening to think that any of us could be gone at any point.
Within hours of Eck's death, tributes were pouring into his Bebo homepage from those who knew him well, and not so well.
People from across Scotland were given a place to join together to share their grief and their memories of a friend who will be sorely missed.
The internet is often cast as a villainous, faceless entity where man's darker side can flourish in the supposed anonymity.
But what is often forgotten is that it can also unite people, bring them together and overcome whatever hurdles life puts in their path.
Rest in Peace Eck
Although I didn't really know Eck, I remember him as a wee smiling blond boy in my brother's football team way back when they were just young teenage boys.
It's frightening to think that any of us could be gone at any point.
Within hours of Eck's death, tributes were pouring into his Bebo homepage from those who knew him well, and not so well.
People from across Scotland were given a place to join together to share their grief and their memories of a friend who will be sorely missed.
The internet is often cast as a villainous, faceless entity where man's darker side can flourish in the supposed anonymity.
But what is often forgotten is that it can also unite people, bring them together and overcome whatever hurdles life puts in their path.
Rest in Peace Eck
Monday, September 25, 2006
The King has entered the building
Don't know how many of you will have seen this advertisement for Radio Two, but I thought I'd share it with you. Proof, as if any were needed, that Elvis isn't dead.
Hangovers
I'm now back in deepest, darkest Argyll after a weekend spent in Scotland's fair capital. The wedding turned out to be a good night despite the fact that the only three people I knew beforehand were Mrs Wife, the bride and groom.
Initially, Mrs Wife and I were stuck at the table from hell, where those couples who didn't know anyone else were put. No-one spoke for the first hour, so Mrs Wife and I decamped to the bar, where we met some people who actually had tongues in their heads, and all was well again.
The band was great, and it is definitely the only wedding I've been to where one of the tracks played has been Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues. An odd choice to play at the start of someone's marriage....
Anyway, I awoke on Sunday morning after Saturday's heavy session on the ale with no hangover. And this started me thinking - I haven't had a hangover in almost 18 months.
Don't get me wrong, I've awoken after nights out feeling tired and thirsty. But in more than a year, I've never had a PROPER hangover, one where you could almost hear your internal organs shrivelling if you listened carefully, and if your brain wasn't hosting its own private Slipknot concert. One where you can easily drink six litres of Coke and still not need to pee, and where the comfiest resting place you can think of is a cool, steel mortuary table.
I don't know why I haven't had a real hangover in so long. The year that has passed has included two stag weekends, one of them my own, several birthday parties, Christmas nights out and a scattering of weddings, again including my own.
On my own stag weekend, I started drinking at noon on the Friday and barely stopped for the next 48 hours, yet never once did I have a genuine hangover.
Maybe alcohol has suddenly gotten more pure, and there are less toxins floating round my body waiting to be transformed into projectile vomit.
Maybe every drink I have had I the past 18 months has been watered down.
Or maybe, after more than a decade of drinking (we start young in Angus) I have developed a higher resistance to the demon drink.
Whatever the reason, I'm not complaining. Too many days have been spent shivering in bed through self-inflicted poisoning, and if I've seen the back of them, I'll happily celebrate - with a double vodka if anyone's buying?
Initially, Mrs Wife and I were stuck at the table from hell, where those couples who didn't know anyone else were put. No-one spoke for the first hour, so Mrs Wife and I decamped to the bar, where we met some people who actually had tongues in their heads, and all was well again.
The band was great, and it is definitely the only wedding I've been to where one of the tracks played has been Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues. An odd choice to play at the start of someone's marriage....
Anyway, I awoke on Sunday morning after Saturday's heavy session on the ale with no hangover. And this started me thinking - I haven't had a hangover in almost 18 months.
Don't get me wrong, I've awoken after nights out feeling tired and thirsty. But in more than a year, I've never had a PROPER hangover, one where you could almost hear your internal organs shrivelling if you listened carefully, and if your brain wasn't hosting its own private Slipknot concert. One where you can easily drink six litres of Coke and still not need to pee, and where the comfiest resting place you can think of is a cool, steel mortuary table.
I don't know why I haven't had a real hangover in so long. The year that has passed has included two stag weekends, one of them my own, several birthday parties, Christmas nights out and a scattering of weddings, again including my own.
On my own stag weekend, I started drinking at noon on the Friday and barely stopped for the next 48 hours, yet never once did I have a genuine hangover.
Maybe alcohol has suddenly gotten more pure, and there are less toxins floating round my body waiting to be transformed into projectile vomit.
Maybe every drink I have had I the past 18 months has been watered down.
Or maybe, after more than a decade of drinking (we start young in Angus) I have developed a higher resistance to the demon drink.
Whatever the reason, I'm not complaining. Too many days have been spent shivering in bed through self-inflicted poisoning, and if I've seen the back of them, I'll happily celebrate - with a double vodka if anyone's buying?
Friday, September 22, 2006
We apologise for the interruption to this service
Groanin' Jock is heading back to Scotland's wonderful east coast this weekend for a wedding in Edinburgh, so there won't be any more posts until Monday.
Just say no
Good news on the football front this morning - the Scottish Football league teams have told the SPL where to stick their plans for SPL2.
From the minute I heard the plans, I didn't agree with them. The current SPL clubs, as well as a group of the bigger First Division clubs, have proposed the formation of an SPL 2, which would supposedly help promote full-time football in Scotland.
But the plans would come at the expense of a fair promotion and relegation system. While I'm all for SPL clubs having all-seater stadia with a minimum 6,000 seats, to insist that clubs in the next division down have all-seater stadia of at least 3,000 seats is frankly ridiculous, given the average attendances.
Whilst Livingston, St Johnstone, Airdrie, Dundee and the other full-time clubs in the SFL already meet the minimum requirements, where would the new rules leave the likes of Brechin City, Stranraer and their fellow part-timers?
If the proposed set-up were implemented, and a smaller club experienced a successful season, winning what is now Division Two, they would be barred from promotion due to their ground not meeting the minimum requirements. Smaller part-time clubs can't afford to build stadia with 3,000 seats, most of which would never be filled, just in the off-chance that they could reach SPL2 some day.
The proposal would create a division in Scottish Football that would be insurmountable to most, unless another Gretna comes along with money to burn.
Scottish football needs to be sorted out properly from the top down, with an emphasis on allowing clubs to progress as far as they can regardless of their financial muscle. The SFA has no problems with Rangers or Celtic visiting non-league grounds in the Scottish Cup, so why should there be a problem with St Johnstone playing at Glebe Park in the league?
In the interests of Scottish football, the league should be revamped to a 16-team top flight, with all teams playing each other twice in a 30-game league season. The League Cup should be brought forward in the season, with its final held in October or November, and the Scottish Cup would remain in its current format.
The 26 remaining clubs in the current SFL should be split into two divisions, one of 16 teams, one of 12, with the two additional places made up by the top sides from the Highland League and from the East of Scotland League. Two teams each season would be promoted from each of the two lower divisions, with two relegated from the Premier and the First Division each season.
A pyramid system connected to the Highland League and other junior leagues should also be instigated to give sides a chance to progress. Each season, the bottom two clubs from Division Two would be relegated to the most relevant junior league, with two coming up to replace them.
Under my proposals, the Scottish league system would look something like this:
Premier Division
Celtic
Rangers
Hearts
Hibs
Aberdeen
Dundee Utd
Kilmarnock
St Mirren
Inverness CT
Motherwell
Falkirk
Dunfermline
Livingston
St Johnstone
Dundee
Gretna
First Division
Partick Thistle
Hamilton Accies
Ross County
Clyde
Queen of the South
Airdrie Utd
Morton
Cowdenbeath
Stirling
Brechin
Ayr
Raith
Peterhead
Stranraer
Forfar
Alloa
Second Division
East Fife
Stenhousemuir
Arbroath
Albion Rovers
Berwick Rangers
Montrose
Dumbarton
Queens Park
East Stirling
Elgin
Deveronvale*
Spartans**
*Promoted from Highland League
** Promoted from East of Scotland League
The Premier Division's current rules on minimum stadium requirements would be retained, but clubs would be given two years' grace to install the seats, during which time they could ground share. There would be no minimum requirements for the other divisions.
This set-up would increase the level of competition in Scottish football, giving the SPL sides eight fewer league games in a season, which would provide less tired players for the national side. There would be more interest in the league, as the clubs wouldn't be playing each other up to six times a season. The clubs in the First Division would be given the chance to win automatic promotion every season, and the clubs in the bottom league would be given the chance to win promotion and challenge themselves against full-time clubs.
But will the powers that be see sense? No. They'll no doubt push on with plans for SPL2 and once again and money will be the deciding factor, sounding the death knell for Scottish football's smaller clubs.
From the minute I heard the plans, I didn't agree with them. The current SPL clubs, as well as a group of the bigger First Division clubs, have proposed the formation of an SPL 2, which would supposedly help promote full-time football in Scotland.
But the plans would come at the expense of a fair promotion and relegation system. While I'm all for SPL clubs having all-seater stadia with a minimum 6,000 seats, to insist that clubs in the next division down have all-seater stadia of at least 3,000 seats is frankly ridiculous, given the average attendances.
Whilst Livingston, St Johnstone, Airdrie, Dundee and the other full-time clubs in the SFL already meet the minimum requirements, where would the new rules leave the likes of Brechin City, Stranraer and their fellow part-timers?
If the proposed set-up were implemented, and a smaller club experienced a successful season, winning what is now Division Two, they would be barred from promotion due to their ground not meeting the minimum requirements. Smaller part-time clubs can't afford to build stadia with 3,000 seats, most of which would never be filled, just in the off-chance that they could reach SPL2 some day.
The proposal would create a division in Scottish Football that would be insurmountable to most, unless another Gretna comes along with money to burn.
Scottish football needs to be sorted out properly from the top down, with an emphasis on allowing clubs to progress as far as they can regardless of their financial muscle. The SFA has no problems with Rangers or Celtic visiting non-league grounds in the Scottish Cup, so why should there be a problem with St Johnstone playing at Glebe Park in the league?
In the interests of Scottish football, the league should be revamped to a 16-team top flight, with all teams playing each other twice in a 30-game league season. The League Cup should be brought forward in the season, with its final held in October or November, and the Scottish Cup would remain in its current format.
The 26 remaining clubs in the current SFL should be split into two divisions, one of 16 teams, one of 12, with the two additional places made up by the top sides from the Highland League and from the East of Scotland League. Two teams each season would be promoted from each of the two lower divisions, with two relegated from the Premier and the First Division each season.
A pyramid system connected to the Highland League and other junior leagues should also be instigated to give sides a chance to progress. Each season, the bottom two clubs from Division Two would be relegated to the most relevant junior league, with two coming up to replace them.
Under my proposals, the Scottish league system would look something like this:
Premier Division
Celtic
Rangers
Hearts
Hibs
Aberdeen
Dundee Utd
Kilmarnock
St Mirren
Inverness CT
Motherwell
Falkirk
Dunfermline
Livingston
St Johnstone
Dundee
Gretna
First Division
Partick Thistle
Hamilton Accies
Ross County
Clyde
Queen of the South
Airdrie Utd
Morton
Cowdenbeath
Stirling
Brechin
Ayr
Raith
Peterhead
Stranraer
Forfar
Alloa
Second Division
East Fife
Stenhousemuir
Arbroath
Albion Rovers
Berwick Rangers
Montrose
Dumbarton
Queens Park
East Stirling
Elgin
Deveronvale*
Spartans**
*Promoted from Highland League
** Promoted from East of Scotland League
The Premier Division's current rules on minimum stadium requirements would be retained, but clubs would be given two years' grace to install the seats, during which time they could ground share. There would be no minimum requirements for the other divisions.
This set-up would increase the level of competition in Scottish football, giving the SPL sides eight fewer league games in a season, which would provide less tired players for the national side. There would be more interest in the league, as the clubs wouldn't be playing each other up to six times a season. The clubs in the First Division would be given the chance to win automatic promotion every season, and the clubs in the bottom league would be given the chance to win promotion and challenge themselves against full-time clubs.
But will the powers that be see sense? No. They'll no doubt push on with plans for SPL2 and once again and money will be the deciding factor, sounding the death knell for Scottish football's smaller clubs.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Carnival of the Vanities
For a pretty good round up of what the weird and wonderful folk on the worldwide interweb have been prattling on about recently, check out the 209th Carnival of the Vanities at Lucy's Dilemma. The Carnival acts as a neat summary of what's been up for discussion in the blogosphere over the past week, including a wee link to my diatribe on the idiots who freed the halibut.
Whae's like us?
Proof, as if any were needed, that there is no race on Earth like the Scots came in an email I received a few days ago, entitled 'Great Scottish Put Downs'.
The pick of the bunch had to be 'She looks like she's been set on fire and then put out with a golf shoe'.
There is nothing I can possibly add to that....
The pick of the bunch had to be 'She looks like she's been set on fire and then put out with a golf shoe'.
There is nothing I can possibly add to that....
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Vice-like grip
Mrs Wife and I went to see Miami Vice at the cinema last night. I must admit that, when I first saw the trailer for the movie, I thought it looked crap. But, having read one or two favourable reviews, I decided to give it a shot.
I should have stuck with my gut instinct.
The movie wasn't COMPLETELY rubbish, just largely rubbish. I'll summarise as follows:
Good points
I should have stuck with my gut instinct.
The movie wasn't COMPLETELY rubbish, just largely rubbish. I'll summarise as follows:
Good points
- Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx spent large portions of the movie riding around in an open top Ferrari.
- There were lots of noisy machine guns.
- Some of the close-ups of gun-inflicted injuries were disturbingly realistic.
- The soundtrack was great.
Bad points
- Colin Farrell may be a master swordsman, but he is terrible actor. His supposed Latino accent occasionally came dangerously close to slipping into his preferred Irish brogue, and his attempts at scenes where he is supposed to be 'troubled' just didn't work.
- There were several appalling sex scenes. Not quite as bad as in Showgirls, but getting pretty close.
- Gong Li isn't hot enough to play a leading lady.
- Too many of the actors spent their time mumbling, mistaking poor diction for acting dangerous, suspicious or South American (or all three).
I wasn't expecting too much from Farrell, but Jamie Foxx's performance was disappointing. Still, at least their won't be a sequel.
Unlike the Mission Impossible franchise, which just keeps on going - apparently Brad Pitt is to replace Tom Cruise for the fourth instalment, becoming the highest-paid actor in Hollywood history.
I'm a big fan of Brad's films, especially Se7en, Fight Club, Twelve Monkeys and Snatch, so if anyone deserves to move to the top of the league, it's Mr Pitt. But I just don't know if he has it in him to pull off the all-action Hollywood blockbuster hero. I think his best work has been when he's been playing freaks, loners and outsiders, whether a pikey in Snatch or Tyler Durden in Fight Club. Still, I'm sure we'll see soon enough.
On the subject, why do studios continue to release poor remakes of cult 70s and 80s shows? So far, off the top of my head, I can recall Charlie's Angels, Starsky and Hutch, The Avengers, Thunderbirds, Miami Vice and Mission Impossible. A much-threatened A Team movie has yet to see the light of day.
But the one I'm waiting for is the chance to see The Hoff reprise his role as Michael Knight for a Knight Rider movie. Imagine Kitt with a 21st century Hollywood budget - now that would be worth seeing.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Indecision is a terrible thing - I think....
This morning, as I ventured south down the Kintyre peninsula, the rain was absolutely leathering down. I don't just mean a little downpour - I mean a solid wall of water.
Only twice in my life have I experienced rain like that - once in Vietnam and once in Singapore, both during monsoon season.
It is quite frightening to be hurtling down a narrow coastal road at 70 miles per hour, unable to see anything because the windscreen wipers on your little Peugeout van simply can't compete with the deluge. Thankfully, wheels remained on asphalt and I was able to continue onwards to Campbeltown.
And now, the sun is beating down, the sky is blue and the birds a'twittering all around. The great Argyll monsoon of 9am has passed without incident, and all is right again in this remote corner of Scotland.
I'm not averse to rain, especially heavy rain. Some of the most enjoyable games of football in which I have played have taken place in conditions so wet that flippers would have been more sensible footwear than boots. There is no feeling like performing a 10-yard sliding tackle through the puddles and sending your opposing number skidding through the mud on his face.
And I'm also quite partial to the sunshine - I love being able to wear shorts for months on end, the heat of the sun on my skin and having an excuse to eat ice cream several times a day. Playing football is also greatly enjoyable in the blazing sun, when the ball rolls and bounces as it should, not simply at the whim of the weather.
But both torrential rain and glorious sunshine on the same day - that's just wrong. A day should set out its stall as soon as the sun rises, so that you know what you're dealing with from beginning to end. I am now dressed in a dark, long-sleeved shirt for the remainder of today's hours at the coalface, which now makes me feel ludicrously over-dressed for the weather.
And no doubt, by the time I clock off, the sun will have dipped behind a hill or cloud, it will be raining and I won't get to eat any ice cream.
Only twice in my life have I experienced rain like that - once in Vietnam and once in Singapore, both during monsoon season.
It is quite frightening to be hurtling down a narrow coastal road at 70 miles per hour, unable to see anything because the windscreen wipers on your little Peugeout van simply can't compete with the deluge. Thankfully, wheels remained on asphalt and I was able to continue onwards to Campbeltown.
And now, the sun is beating down, the sky is blue and the birds a'twittering all around. The great Argyll monsoon of 9am has passed without incident, and all is right again in this remote corner of Scotland.
I'm not averse to rain, especially heavy rain. Some of the most enjoyable games of football in which I have played have taken place in conditions so wet that flippers would have been more sensible footwear than boots. There is no feeling like performing a 10-yard sliding tackle through the puddles and sending your opposing number skidding through the mud on his face.
And I'm also quite partial to the sunshine - I love being able to wear shorts for months on end, the heat of the sun on my skin and having an excuse to eat ice cream several times a day. Playing football is also greatly enjoyable in the blazing sun, when the ball rolls and bounces as it should, not simply at the whim of the weather.
But both torrential rain and glorious sunshine on the same day - that's just wrong. A day should set out its stall as soon as the sun rises, so that you know what you're dealing with from beginning to end. I am now dressed in a dark, long-sleeved shirt for the remainder of today's hours at the coalface, which now makes me feel ludicrously over-dressed for the weather.
And no doubt, by the time I clock off, the sun will have dipped behind a hill or cloud, it will be raining and I won't get to eat any ice cream.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Save The Whale (and the halibut)
A frightening news story from Groanin' Jock's backyard came to light over the weekend, as suspected animal rights activists freed some farmed halibut from their cages near Oban.
These fish farm freedom fighters caused thousands of pounds' worth of damage to fish cages in their valiant attempt to 'free' the imprisoned halibut.
When I said that this story was scary, I didn't mean that I feared for my life. I meant that it is frightening that people so stupid exist.
What benefit do they think they are doing to anyone, or to the halibut, by damaging these cages and freeing the fish?
The cages are already in the sea, and are big enough to allow the fish to swim around quite contentedly. No experiments are being done on the fish, no-one is spraying them with deodorant or forcing shampoo into their eyes in the sake of cosmetic advancement.
In fact, all that was being done was the growing of fish from ickle baby fish into fish big enough for humans to eat.
The idiots who released the fish perhaps haven't realised that, in the open sea, the halibut will probably either be caught by a fisherman or eaten by something bigger, thus making their efforts to free the fish entirely pointless.
I have to admit that I tend to find animal rights activists in all their incarnations pretty irritating. A blinkered belief that any animal not in its natural habit is in need of emancipation is a frankly ridiculous notion. I am also generally sceptical of vegetarians who proclaim that man is not supposed to eat meat.
We are, that's why we have the physiques and attributes suited to hunting rather than grazing. It's also why our canine teeth are shaped the way they are - to rip through the carcass of whatever animal we've just killed.
I just look forward to the next attack by the group which struck at the Oban fish farm, whether that means freeing chickens from a farm or cows from a field. Or maybe they'll set their sights higher and release the giraffes, gorillas and tigers from Edinburgh Zoo. Now that WOULD be interesting.
These fish farm freedom fighters caused thousands of pounds' worth of damage to fish cages in their valiant attempt to 'free' the imprisoned halibut.
When I said that this story was scary, I didn't mean that I feared for my life. I meant that it is frightening that people so stupid exist.
What benefit do they think they are doing to anyone, or to the halibut, by damaging these cages and freeing the fish?
The cages are already in the sea, and are big enough to allow the fish to swim around quite contentedly. No experiments are being done on the fish, no-one is spraying them with deodorant or forcing shampoo into their eyes in the sake of cosmetic advancement.
In fact, all that was being done was the growing of fish from ickle baby fish into fish big enough for humans to eat.
The idiots who released the fish perhaps haven't realised that, in the open sea, the halibut will probably either be caught by a fisherman or eaten by something bigger, thus making their efforts to free the fish entirely pointless.
I have to admit that I tend to find animal rights activists in all their incarnations pretty irritating. A blinkered belief that any animal not in its natural habit is in need of emancipation is a frankly ridiculous notion. I am also generally sceptical of vegetarians who proclaim that man is not supposed to eat meat.
We are, that's why we have the physiques and attributes suited to hunting rather than grazing. It's also why our canine teeth are shaped the way they are - to rip through the carcass of whatever animal we've just killed.
I just look forward to the next attack by the group which struck at the Oban fish farm, whether that means freeing chickens from a farm or cows from a field. Or maybe they'll set their sights higher and release the giraffes, gorillas and tigers from Edinburgh Zoo. Now that WOULD be interesting.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Here we go, here we go, here we go
And after the storm comes the quiet. The trials and tribulations of working at the Mod are in the past, and all thoughts of toes and scalpels can be saved for nearer the time.
Today is football day. Chelsea face Liverpool and Manchester United play Arsenal in a mouth-watering day of Premiership action. Loathe though I am to admit it, English football is the most exciting in the world. Where else could you get two such massive clashes on the same day?
Spain may have the ultra-sexy Barcelona and Real Madrid, but the big two aside, none of the other clubs in the Primera League have the same draw as the top four English sides. Italy comes close, but with Juventus now slumming it in Serie B and the other sides tainted by the match-fixing scandal, the attraction of the world champions' league is not what it was. Porto, Bayern Munich and Ajax may be big clubs, but their leagues don't compare with the Premiership.
If only Scottish football were so strong. What we often forget north of the border is that there are only five million people in Scotland - fewer than live in the Greater London area. It stands to reason that our football league will pale in comparison to the Sassenachs', as we have less than a tenth of the potential fan base.
As much as I'd like to see Rangers, Celtic, Aberdeen, Hearts, Hibs and Dundee Utd challenging for European honours, it's not going to happen, unless some more Russian oil billionaires fancy splashing their cash in Scotland. Or I win that Euro Millions lottery.
Today is football day. Chelsea face Liverpool and Manchester United play Arsenal in a mouth-watering day of Premiership action. Loathe though I am to admit it, English football is the most exciting in the world. Where else could you get two such massive clashes on the same day?
Spain may have the ultra-sexy Barcelona and Real Madrid, but the big two aside, none of the other clubs in the Primera League have the same draw as the top four English sides. Italy comes close, but with Juventus now slumming it in Serie B and the other sides tainted by the match-fixing scandal, the attraction of the world champions' league is not what it was. Porto, Bayern Munich and Ajax may be big clubs, but their leagues don't compare with the Premiership.
If only Scottish football were so strong. What we often forget north of the border is that there are only five million people in Scotland - fewer than live in the Greater London area. It stands to reason that our football league will pale in comparison to the Sassenachs', as we have less than a tenth of the potential fan base.
As much as I'd like to see Rangers, Celtic, Aberdeen, Hearts, Hibs and Dundee Utd challenging for European honours, it's not going to happen, unless some more Russian oil billionaires fancy splashing their cash in Scotland. Or I win that Euro Millions lottery.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Under the knife
Distressing news from Groanin' Towers today folks - Groanin' Jock is to go under the surgeon's knife for the first time in history.
Fear not though - the surgery is a minor out-patient's op to sort an in-growing toenail.
After years of playing football, sprinting, cross country running, long jump and other foot-mangling activities, I have feet that would probably make a Hobbit vomit.
My toes are gnarled like Gollum's, and years of ignoring problems has finally taken its toll. Even by my own gruesome standards, my feet are in a poor shape. When George Best finally departed for the great off-licence in the sky, I considered writing to his estate to ask whether I could have his famed feet for use in the world's first foot transplant (fair enough, I would suggest, considering that he was given a new set of internal organs to pickle).
And so, having consulted my doctor and been pumped full of drugs, but to no avail, I have agreed to have the offending nail sliced and pulled out, and the gaping wound left in its absence 'burned clean' (the doctor's words, not mine).
Having witnessed the pain experienced by friends who have previously had troublesome toenails removed, I was expecting to be told that my foot would be mummified in bandages for a period of weeks whilst it healed.
Not so, says the doctor. I'll get two injections in the toe, the 'operation' will take less than half an hour, and I'll go straight back to work. And apparently I'll be back playing football (or pretending to at least) within a week.
But, for all the doctor's assurances, I'm still not entirely overjoyed at the prospect of a man poking about at my left foot with a sharp knife. All it need is a sneeze from me and he could be looking for a needle and thread.....
Fear not though - the surgery is a minor out-patient's op to sort an in-growing toenail.
After years of playing football, sprinting, cross country running, long jump and other foot-mangling activities, I have feet that would probably make a Hobbit vomit.
My toes are gnarled like Gollum's, and years of ignoring problems has finally taken its toll. Even by my own gruesome standards, my feet are in a poor shape. When George Best finally departed for the great off-licence in the sky, I considered writing to his estate to ask whether I could have his famed feet for use in the world's first foot transplant (fair enough, I would suggest, considering that he was given a new set of internal organs to pickle).
And so, having consulted my doctor and been pumped full of drugs, but to no avail, I have agreed to have the offending nail sliced and pulled out, and the gaping wound left in its absence 'burned clean' (the doctor's words, not mine).
Having witnessed the pain experienced by friends who have previously had troublesome toenails removed, I was expecting to be told that my foot would be mummified in bandages for a period of weeks whilst it healed.
Not so, says the doctor. I'll get two injections in the toe, the 'operation' will take less than half an hour, and I'll go straight back to work. And apparently I'll be back playing football (or pretending to at least) within a week.
But, for all the doctor's assurances, I'm still not entirely overjoyed at the prospect of a man poking about at my left foot with a sharp knife. All it need is a sneeze from me and he could be looking for a needle and thread.....
Friday, September 15, 2006
All work and no play
As the sun is scorching today despite the fact that we are now midway into the Argyll autumn, you would be forgiven for thinking that I would be in a pleasant mood ahead of this weekend.
I am not. I have to work this weekend. My weekend, which could yet turn out to be the last glimpse of sunshine between now and next year, will be spent indoors. At a Mod.
For the uninitiated, a Mod is a festival of Gaelic music and song. I don't speak Gaelic. The music and songs always sound very sombre. I dislike the pageantary that is associated with the Mods, the matching tartan uniforms and arcane traditions.
And so, this weekend is not looked upon favourably by the Groanin' Jock. Where I would normally be working out how to maximise my time in the sun (lying in the garden reading the newspaper with a cold beer and some crisps would normally top the list), I am now to be subjected to almost eight hours of maudlin Gaelic whining.
How I miss the carefree days of my student years, when whole hours, nay WEEKS, were spent doing next to nothing, all in the name of getting an education. I may have been broke and forced to attend lectures at 9am, as well as working crappy jobs to finance the debauchery, but at least no-one made me listen to Gaelic music.
I am not. I have to work this weekend. My weekend, which could yet turn out to be the last glimpse of sunshine between now and next year, will be spent indoors. At a Mod.
For the uninitiated, a Mod is a festival of Gaelic music and song. I don't speak Gaelic. The music and songs always sound very sombre. I dislike the pageantary that is associated with the Mods, the matching tartan uniforms and arcane traditions.
And so, this weekend is not looked upon favourably by the Groanin' Jock. Where I would normally be working out how to maximise my time in the sun (lying in the garden reading the newspaper with a cold beer and some crisps would normally top the list), I am now to be subjected to almost eight hours of maudlin Gaelic whining.
How I miss the carefree days of my student years, when whole hours, nay WEEKS, were spent doing next to nothing, all in the name of getting an education. I may have been broke and forced to attend lectures at 9am, as well as working crappy jobs to finance the debauchery, but at least no-one made me listen to Gaelic music.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Raeiro
How do Brazilian footballers get their names? How did Edson Arantes Do Nascimento become Pele? Why is Ronaldo called Ronaldo when he's in Spain but Ronaldinho when in Brazil?
If these questions have ever taxed your brain, tough luck. I don't have the answers. But I can help you find out what YOUR name would be if you were a Brazilian footballer.
Tired of plain old John Smith? Become Sminho. Fed up with Frank Brown? Congratulations, you are now Frildo. Visit the Brazilian name generator to find out what your sensational samba name would be.
My moniker, were I Brazilian and a competent footballer, instead of an overweight, out of shape "never was" would be Raeiro.
Just for interest's sake, the Scotland team which beat Lithuania last week would have lined up as follows if they'd had Brazilian names on their fancy new shirts:
1 Gordeiro (Craig Gordon)
2 Claudio Daito (Christian Dailly)
3 Weardo (David Weir)
4 Caldwundo Santos (Gary Caldwell)
5 Naysmezo (Gary Naysmith)
6 Presslio Peres (Steven Pressley)
7 Fletchimo (Darren Fletcher)
8 Nigson (Nigel Quashie)
9 Jama (James McFadden)
10 Hartlisco (Paul Hartley)
11 Millimo (Kenny Miller)
Subs
12 Alexandisco (Neil Alexander)
14 Andersinho (Russell Anderson)
15 Robbie Neilsio (Robbie Neilson)
16 Bão (Kris Boyd)
17 Grahinho (Graham Alexander)
18 Scaldo (Scott Severin)
19 Tealeca (Gary Teale)
My own personal favourite is the fact that David Weir, who captained the side in the absence of the injured Barry Ferguson (AKA Fergusa), would be called Weardo.
If these questions have ever taxed your brain, tough luck. I don't have the answers. But I can help you find out what YOUR name would be if you were a Brazilian footballer.
Tired of plain old John Smith? Become Sminho. Fed up with Frank Brown? Congratulations, you are now Frildo. Visit the Brazilian name generator to find out what your sensational samba name would be.
My moniker, were I Brazilian and a competent footballer, instead of an overweight, out of shape "never was" would be Raeiro.
Just for interest's sake, the Scotland team which beat Lithuania last week would have lined up as follows if they'd had Brazilian names on their fancy new shirts:
1 Gordeiro (Craig Gordon)
2 Claudio Daito (Christian Dailly)
3 Weardo (David Weir)
4 Caldwundo Santos (Gary Caldwell)
5 Naysmezo (Gary Naysmith)
6 Presslio Peres (Steven Pressley)
7 Fletchimo (Darren Fletcher)
8 Nigson (Nigel Quashie)
9 Jama (James McFadden)
10 Hartlisco (Paul Hartley)
11 Millimo (Kenny Miller)
Subs
12 Alexandisco (Neil Alexander)
14 Andersinho (Russell Anderson)
15 Robbie Neilsio (Robbie Neilson)
16 Bão (Kris Boyd)
17 Grahinho (Graham Alexander)
18 Scaldo (Scott Severin)
19 Tealeca (Gary Teale)
My own personal favourite is the fact that David Weir, who captained the side in the absence of the injured Barry Ferguson (AKA Fergusa), would be called Weardo.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Great Scot!
At the moment, I am reading The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffeneger, a novel I would recommend to all you people out in the great wide world.
Without spoiling the plot for anyone who does intend to read the book, it follows the stories of a time traveler, Henry, and his wife, Claire, whom Henry first meets when he is in his forties and she is eight.
I've always been fascinated by the idea of time travel, ever since my head was filled with Star Wars, Masters of the Universe, Transformers and Thundercats (which I estimate to have been sometime last week).
Back To The Future easily makes my top five films of all time, and HG Wells' The Time Machine was a novel on the subject I discovered whilst at university. (By 'discovered' I mean 'was forced to read for a Cultural Studies module').
Anyway, I've always been intrigued by the possibility that we could jump backwards and forwards in time as the fancy took us, if only we had the technology.
But as I have grown older and , allegedly, wiser, one thought on the subject has come to dominate my thinking:
By its very nature, if time travel technology is ever to exist, then it already does.
The fact that at no point in history to date have we come across time travelers popping up to say hello suggests, to me, that it never will. I'm not suggesting that if NASA or some similar privately-owned entity managed to invent a time machine that it would necessarily broadcast the fact. But I'm sure that if time travel became possible at somepoint in the future, some idiot would have magically appeared with the dinosaurs, at the Battle of Hastings, at Kennedy's assassination or on the pitch at a World Cup final.
So, I am now resigned to the fact that I will never get the chance to stop myself smashing up my first car only a fortnight after passing my driving test, prevent my brother sticking his hand in a coal fire, or hang out with The Beatles at Abbey Road.
I guess it's time to stop wasting money attempting to build a flux capacitor....
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
The Phil Factor
Any of you with a spare minute or 10 to roam around the interweb could do worse than check out The Phil Factor, the only blog I am aware of that claims to be 'specially ribbed for your pleasure'. Just remember to come back for some groanin'....
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